


Devil In the Wires

by blackkat



Series: Horoscope Drabbles [31]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Cyborgs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The sages wear white robes and cloaks and hoods, and only their hands are visible. Madara is given his choice of them, the privilege of a highly paying customer, and he picks the one with long, clever fingers, deft hands most suited to fine workings.





	Devil In the Wires

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr:
> 
> Ophiuchus: Who knows what the chaos blessed your insides with? The sages of the deep vaults can open you up and detail every inch. For a price, they can route out some dead compute nodes or chop out those extra lungs.

The sages wear white robes and cloaks and hoods, and only their hands are visible. Madara is given his choice of them, the privilege of a highly paying customer, and he picks the one with long, clever fingers, deft hands most suited to fine workings.

There is no argument, no reaction. The selected sage bows, perfectly polite, and then steps back, sliding open the door into the operation room. Like everything in the deep vaults, it’s a chaotic and carefully organized tangle, copper and steel and fiberoptic cables like the veins of some great beast as they cross the ceiling and walls. The room itself is brightly lit, and the operating table is smooth black, absorbing the brilliance without reflecting any of it back.

“I expect you are skilled?” Madara says, watching narrowly as the sage seals the door. The bright lights spin around his fingers, swift and unhesitating, though Madara supposes he wouldn’t have been an option for this job if he didn’t know at least the basic aether manipulation.

“Yes, sir,” the sage murmurs, and once the rhythmic clatter of the locks setting sounds, he turns, lifting a hand. “If you will—”

Madara doesn’t wait for him to finish. He grabs the sage’s arm, wrenches him forward as the man stumbles, and knocks his hood back with one quick jerk.

There's a sharp breath, dark eyes going wide. The man freezes, clearly uncertain, and Madara frowns. He’s young, as his unwrinkled hands hinted. Brown-haired, with locks wrapped in white cloth falling to frame his face, and small horns at his hairline. Pretty, Madara thinks clinically, tilting his chin up with one hand to inspect his face more closely. The sage lets him, but his eyes are steady firm; there's no waver in them as he watches Madara in return, careful but unafraid.

Then again, the sages have little to fear from anyone, even a man like Madara.

“Your name,” Madara says, regardless, makes it a demand instead of a request.

For a moment, he thinks the sage isn't going to answer. Then, quietly, he offers, “Ashura. And you are Madara, Lord of the Second Level.”

It’s not information he should have. It’s not information Madara _wants_ him to have, but even though he curls his lip and bares his teeth, he doesn’t ask how Ashura knows. The sages keep such things to themselves, and Madara hasn’t met one yet who didn’t hoard secrets the way most souls do credits. “You’ve performed this operation before?” he asks sharply. “You know what is required of you?”

One long-fingered hand comes up, closes around Madara's wrist and gently tugs his hand from Ashura’s face. Madara lets him, doesn’t object even as Ashura steps closer, but—

He can't look away from those eyes. Depthless-dark, edged with kohl, flickering for the barest moment with an electric blue light as the aether rises through him.

Slowly, deliberately, Ashura steps even closer, right into Madara's space, and then reaches out. Deft fingers part the folds of his robe, let it fall away, and Madara allows it, stands still as Ashura places a hand on his bare skin. Like electricity, blue light crackles around him, and he glances up to meet Madara's eyes.

“There's chaos inside of you,” he says, and smiles, as if it’s an interesting thing, or an admirable one.

Madara knows very well who made him, and what. “You can tell me,” he says, and it’s more warning than question. “You can tell me what’s inside me.”

“Old systems,” Ashura says, as if it’s amusing, and when he looks up again that bright humor has slid into his face, curled into something close to laughter. “Systems from an age ago, and an engineer’s hopes and dreams and nightmares.”

Madara has felt it before; he knows precisely what Ashura is referring to. All the bits and pieces inside of him are churning, twisting, _alive_ in ways they shouldn’t be. Madara woke up when all the others did, a creature of an age long past with a whole databank of new memories that didn’t quite fit and no recollection of what he used to be. Better that way, he thinks sometimes.

Other times, the dreams are so dark and terrible that they drive him to seek the sages in the deep vaults, far below the shadowbreak.

“I want it eased,” he tells Ashura, catches his wrist again. Squeezes, just a little in warning, but the sages are flesh and blood even if they aren’t mortal anymore, and a cyborg’s strength is still a threat.

Ashura doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, though. He hums softly, a tenor note, and leans in. Reaches up, one hand settling lightly in Madara's hair, and he’s so close that Madara can feel the warmth of breath on his lips. It shimmers blue-white, pure power, and Madara shudders. On instinct, he lashes out, wraps an arm around Ashura’s back and hauls him up, turns them, _pins_ him flat against the darkness of the operating table with a snarl.

“I _want_ —” he starts, but a finger pressing light against his lips cuts him off without warning.

“You want something I can't give you,” Ashura says, and gets an elbow underneath himself, pushing up just a little. Suddenly, starkly, Madara becomes aware of the body underneath him in a way he wasn’t before, the electric sharp _current_ of him, because there’s a finger trailing down his chest and Madara's skin is splitting, opening, sliding back to reveal the wires and gears and systems that make him up.

“I want what’s my _right_ ,” Madara says, tattered and strained at the seams. “Just—one _moment_ of peace.”

For an instant, Ashura’s eyes are sad. “You were made for war,” he says, as if he’s just now realizing it. “But there's no war to fight here.”

Madara laughs, bitter on his tongue. “Only a few slicers in the tunnels, hidden like rats,” he says darkly. “Hardly enough to satisfy on a good day.”

And on a bad one, it’s lucky that the Second Level isn't even slightly more flammable.

Ashura frowns a little, splaying his fingers across the systems in Madara's chest. Then he leans up, slowly enough that Madara could pull away if he wanted to, and lays a light, numbing kiss on Madara's lips, electric-sharp and aether-sweet. He tastes like power, addictive and taunting, just out of Madara's reach, but when he draws back, he’s smiling.

His hand finds Madara's, and he says, “At the very least, I can make your dreams better.”

Madara's breath shakes as it leaves him, and his shoulders bow, the weight of relief leaving him dazed. He closes his eyes, laughing a little, and if it’s faintly mad, he has every reason. “No more dreams of death?” he asks. “No more wars when I close my eyes?”

“No more temptation,” Ashura promises, and Madara can't tell if it’s an agreement or a correction. Either way, he doesn’t resist as Ashura pulls him down, rolls until he’s sitting astride Madara, aether-light rising around him, tangling in his eyes as he looks down. His fingers slide into the depths of Madara's chest, curl through the wires, and Madara tips his head back, laughter bubbling up.

“Kiss me,” he orders, and Ashura does, the numbing bite of electricity and the sweet relief of darkness dragging him under.


End file.
